Going to take a moment to blow my own horn, ’cause yesterday I did something nigh impossible for me: I wrote a synopsis.
A true industry synopsis is the driest piece of writing in the world. Give me an instructional text over a synopsis any day of the week! As a writer, I’ve long been aware the synopsis is my Waterloo. Been horrible at writing them ever since I learned what they are. I say too much, am too poetic, and get so frustrated by the process that I’ve learned in my old age to delegate synopsis writing to
someone anyone else.
Ah! And yet, there a synopsis sits: dry as a bone, not one flavor of the real story in it, just action, action, action. Took me close to two hours to write a half page synopsis; that should tell you how much I hate it and how difficult I find it.
I’m pleased with myself.
Got to the gym yesterday for an hour and a half work-out. It did NOT clear my head and it did NOT make me feel better, other than a slight satisfaction over knowing I least got up and moved my fat ass. Today is swimming, and dodging people perilously close to drowning. Meh. What I’d give for an hour alone in the pool. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll all be out sick.
Still no word from the theatre group.
Feeling a little put out lately. Did a lot of work on spring cleaning over the weekend, getting to all those hard to reach places you don’t usually do ’cause it’s just too much trouble. And what’s sitting on my floor today? Dust bunnies. Where the fuck did they come from? I almost knock myself out climbing and kneeling and reaching to clean up every bit of dust in this tiny, tiny space and within 48 hours there are dust bunnies running wild on the floor again?!? Yeesh! I mean, I like the whole clean look, but is it worth it?
Asking myself to do a page of language exercises and a page of reading in Dutch each day. No more than that. I keep having to make the commitment to learning the language, over and over again. Ach! It’s such a slog. My reading is about a 10 year old level, but I’m still unable to flesh black and white Dutch words into full color pictures in my head. Yes, if you give me a simple sentence I’ll understand what’s going on, but I’ve got no nuance to go with it. When I read English, it’s like watching a film in my mind. I don’t get that with Dutch, and it’s bugging the hell out of me. Yet I also know the only way to get to that point with my reading is to keep bloody reading!
Reached part seven of Anna Karenina. My left hand now bears the brunt of that huge tome as I read. Just can’t help thinking that if I was to hand in a manuscript with paragraph long sentences, interspersed with dozens of commas, that were actually several sentences strung together, but used the old English writing, in the mode of the classics, to push the boundaries of what we now take as simple sentence structure, surely and without a doubt said manuscript would be cast aside the moment the first acne faced assistant, paid far too little and embittered over his own flagging writing career, laid eyes upon it. 😉 The only way to even begin getting away with that is to do a re-write; Anna Karenina: Zombie Killer (not a bad idea, tho I don’t know if it’s worth typing the entire manuscript in my computer in order to do it).
Next on the English chop block: The Iliad by Homer. Figure I’m doing two things at once with my reading list. First, I’m reading the classics I haven’t read yet; and second, maybe if I keep my English reading at an equal (tho different) difficulty level I’ll be more tempted to read in Dutch.
Still can’t hear a bass guitar play. The Police are topping my music rotation because they shelf their instruments high enough even I can hear them.
…How can everything seem to take so long, yet I often feel there’s not enough time in the day? Waiting to hear from people takes forever, yet I can go out and do a few things and suddenly BAM! It’s mid to late afternoon and I’m sitting down to write or read my stuff for the first time. Couldn’t those things get reversed for once? I hear from people promptly and my errands take a fraction of the time so I’ve loads of writing opportunities? But no. Instead I worry I’m counting my remaining years by how many times I do the fucking dishes.
I’m just whittling away at life.